Born of Darkness
by Pixo
Summary: A mysterious man from the Yin-Sloth Jungle comes forth, but what does Hasdrubal want?
1. The Southlands

**The Southlands**

The blond-headed boy ran across the yard, rushed into the barn where his father worked, mending the wine press.  
"Pap!" he cried out. The urgency in his voice made his father look up sharply from his work, "What, boy?"  
"Pap, a horseman rides here!" the boy panted.  
The father wiped his hands on a rag, his face turning hard, the boy was in for a beating if he wasted his time any further.

"From the southeast, Pap!" Fearfully recognizing the hard face.  
Throwing the rag to the down, he strode purposefully to the door, glaring southeast. Down the slope, a few miles away a solitary dark figure rode slowly to his village.  
"Boy!" he called, "Tell your ma to get the other little ones in the house, and then run to Dolma's place and let the old man know, then into town. Alert Brom first. Now, be quick, boy!" He said, taking a swing with his sandaled foot at the boy's backside as he bolted past.

The father walked slowly into the barn, looked at his wine press, wondering if he'd get the chance to fix it before harvest was due. Nothing good ever came out the southeast. The Yin-Sloth was a land of stinking jungles, dark-skinned, black-hearted men, fearsome monsters, and nameless horrors. The village of Greenhill, the most southerly of the Free villages, lived with a guarded fear of the dark jungles a few days ride away. After touching the wine-press softly, he walked out the barn, closed and locked the door. He sighed loudly, spat on the ground, and strode purposefully to his large hut. Inside his wife was rallying the brood into the basement, her face taut with fear, but her movements filled with purpose.  
"Ban" she called.  
Without looking up from where he was tying on his hardened leather vest, he said, "Shouldn't be gone more than a few hours, stay below, keep the kids quiet."  
"It's like Asala all over again" she said.  
Ban laughed, taking up his spear and shield which hung near the door, "It's nothing like Asala – one man, one horse. Dolma and I will check him out before he gets to close."  
"Be careful love." She said from the steps leading to the basement.  
He looked at her for a long moment, the women he pledged his life to. Though he took up shield and spear, he knew she was stronger then him. She had marched with him during the Freedom War, an undernourished waif of a girl. Fixed him went he was broken. She had given him six children, and held him when two others had died. His pledge was still strong. Tucking his helmet under his elbow he said, "Aye, I will."

He stepped out and closed the door tightly, slipped his helmet on, and walked towards the lone rider. Ban lived in the Freelands. A slip of land that butted up against the mountains to the east, the jungles to the southeast, the ocean to the south, and the lands of Torpfichen, ruled by King Vesper, to the west and north. The Freelands had only recently been made free.

A dozen years pervious, a huge horde of dark-skinned men and monster lead by a fiendish wizard roared north from the Yin-Sloth into the Lands of the South-Wind - a corrupt and degenerate collection of kingdoms more often fighting each other then together. King Asala of Torpfichen, his kingdom closest to the Yin-Sloth Jungle sallied forth with his knights, conscripting every able-bodied man - and many that were not – along his way, raising an army to fight the dark horde. Ban had been young when a bull-necked sergeant-at-arms, backed by a squadron of grim-faced riders rounded up him and everyone young man from Greenhill and thrusted spears into their hand and ordered them to march.

King Asala saw off the horde in a campaign that lasted three years. Many conscripts were killed, used as bait to draw the dark horde into traps and feigns. Ban saw three of his brothers and half the villagers he marched out die in the southlands. When the war was over the conscripts were sent home with notice their pay would be delivered to them. Their lands, where the bulk of fighting took place, was ruined. Nothing ever came, no reward, no loot, no pay. Their sacrifice only bolstered the coffers of the King and his cronies to the north and the west. Worse still, royal taxmen soon arrived and made every increasing demands to repay the cost of the war, the war they claimed, was fought to protect them. Rebellion soon followed.

It started small at first. A taxman was killed in the Barony of Pol, on the slopes of Brarun Mountain. Then a royal caravan mysterious disappeared. After that the rebellion grew; two dozen conscripts who had marched and survived the war, Ban with them, banded together and started raiding the aristocrat's lands. The royal reprisal was fearsome. The Baron soon had the newly sowed orchards and vineyards burning and bodies hanging from trees throughout Pol. In one afternoon, a well planned assaulted eliminated Baron Pol and his entire regime. The Baron and his clutch of retainers and body guards were killed while out hawk-hunting, their bodies pin-crushed with arrows, left to rot in sun. The Baron's family was killed after his fortress was stormed. His wife and daughters clubbed and kicked to death, Ban personally hurled his only son from the battlements.

The fires of rebellion grew more violent through the entire kingdom and nowhere more violent then in Pol. War was declared by the King. Open confrontation was enviable. The rebels meet Asala on the plains of Pol and were quickly routed by the vicious horseman and merciless knights. However, the rebellion leaders had remembered the hard lessons they had learned at Asala's hands. Fleeing to the slopes of Brarun, the rebels drew the riders into the vineyards and orchards where the horseman lost the advantages of being mounted. The hidden spearman veterans, Ban amongst them, had watched helplessly the slaughter of many of their kin, extracted a terrible toll. Thousands died, the cream of Tropfichen's aristocracy was destroyed that day, and the kingdom's foundations teetered and shook.

To this day wine made of grapes from Brarun's slopes is called Trop-Blood Wine.

King Asala himself wounded was taken captive, and after the rebel spearman and archers routed another army of Asalan elites at the Battle of the Orchard, killing what was left of the upper-class of Torpfichen, the king was forced to free the rebel lands, now called the Freelands. He was allowed to return to his throne and shattered kingdom, where he died shortly thereafter. He son Ablax, swore he would return the so-called Freeland. The new king assembled an army, marched forth, and was slain on the same fields where the rebellion had started, Pol. After Ablax, came King Arbul, who meet the same fate as Ablax only this time in the north of the Freelands at the Battle of the Olive Grove. King Vesper, not of Asala's family line was the fourth man to take the throne in less then two years, promised to leave the Freelands be. And so it had been for a four years.

Ban walked down the path of his home until he reached the path that lead to the village and watched the rider closely, still too far away to make any details. He leaned on his spear while he waited. He soon heard the soft crunch of feet coming up from behind him, old man Dolma appeared at his side. Dolma's face was brown and heavily lined, like Ban's, though his grey beard showed his was ban's elder by more the twenty years. Though old, Dolma had a hardness and strength in him that never failed to impress Ban or anyone else in the village. He nodded to the horseman, "What do you think?"

Dolma rubbed his left shoulder unconsciously, soothing an ancient wound, "If he be a jungle-man, I'll split him on my spear."  
"Easy now, let's hear him out. He could be a merchant."  
Dolma's spit transmitted his thoughts on the matter.  
"Right, let's go." And they both walked down the path.

The rider reigned in as the two man came within shouting distance, he waited for them to come to him. The two men were armed, spears and shields, but they were not soldiers of any army. Militia, he thought.  
"Ho! Rider!" Roared one of the men, holding up a hand to indicate he should not move.  
As the two men approached, one to each side of the him, he raised his empty hands, letting the reigns slip. The younger of the two held his spear skywards but at the ready. The other, a gnarled faced man walked forward holding his spear low, aimed at his horse, the old man took up the slack reigns in his strong hands.

The younger man spoke, "Who are you?"  
"Hasdrubal." Spoke the rider, his voice was deep and accented.  
The horseman was wrapped in travel-worn robes of brown. He skin was a darker brown than either of Ban's or Dolma's. He had an intense, mean face with a cruel hooked-nose and eyes black as pitch. The Freemen had seen his kind before, a dozen years before, this man was from the Yin-Sloth.  
"What do you want, jungle-man?" asked the younger man, his face hard.  
"Just a place to rest myself for a few days. Then perhaps seen if there is any coin to be earned." Hasdrubal said.  
"Earn coin … or steal it?" growled the old man.  
Hasdrubal turned his black eyes to the old man, "Earn it old man, earn it." Dolma's hand tightened on the reigns, jerking the horse a little towards him.  
"I see you're armed" said Ban, eyes on the sword sheathed around the saddle's horn and the spear tied to the horse's back.  
"Only a fool travels unarmed."  
"In foreign lands." said Ban  
"In any land." Hasdrubal replied.  
The two Freemen glanced at one another. Dolma growled, "I say we kill him and let his dark body rot in the sun. None will miss him, of that I'm sure."

The dark-man said, "I'm not here to do harm. I merely wish to rest, work, and move on. I have some coin to pay my way for accommodation and food, but not enough to reach my destination."  
"Where's that?" Dolma asked.  
"North" was the only answer he got.  
"What work can you do?" Asked Ban.  
The cruel-faced one looked around himself while in thought, eventually he spoke, "I can work a vineyard as well as any fieldhand." He stared long and hard at Ban, his mean eyes like orbs of darkness, "and fix broken things." A strange silence fell over them, as Ban digested what he just heard. It was as if this jungle-man had read his mind. His lip curled, "Are you a sorcerer?" he said louder then intended. Dolma glanced at Ban briefly, gripped the reigns hard and pushed his spear up to the horse's throat. The jungle-man held up his hands, knowing he could be killed quickly if these peasants thought him a mage, "No, am I no sorcerer!"  
"Fiend! I should stick you, here and now!" Ban waved his spear angrily.  
Still holding up his hands, "Easy Freemen, go easy." Said Hasdrubal, "I mean to move on … as quickly as I can." Though he faced two spear-armed men, he was neither cowed nor dominated.

After a long moment of silence, Ban finally spoke, "Jungle-man you are not welcome here, know that none will take kindly to your kind. You are _allowed_ to come our village and pay your way like any _honest_ traveler. Bewared, I will be watching you. Any sense of fiendishness or devilry and your head will be staring north from atop my spear."  
Hasdrubal lowered his hands to his lap and smiled slightly and nodded his head, his demeanor neither insolent nor servile, but bordering on both simultaneously.

"If I may pass," he said to Dolma. The old man let the reigns fall, so that Hasdrubal would have to lean forwards to collect them. When he was at his most outstretched, Dolma suddenly dropped his shield and grabbed his neck with a strong gnarled hand. Hasdrubal let out a slight hiss at the vice-like grip, but made no effort to fight the old man. Dolma pushed his ugly bearded face into Hasdrubal's and spat. A large wade of foul salvia smacked the jungle-man between the eyes and slid slowly down his cheek. Though he stayed completely silent, there was no mistaking the rage in Hasdrubal's black eyes and bared teeth. Contemptuously, Dolma pushed him away, picked up his shield and stood aside for the horseman.

Looking at neither men, Hasdrubal took a moment to compose his dignity, collect himself and slowly trotted his way up the hill slope to the village beyond with not another word.

"What do you think?" Ban asked.  
"We should of gutted him." Said Dolma, and with that he started after the horseman. Ban frowned and followed, wondering if his old friend was right.


	2. Welcome

**Welcome**

Hasdrubal slipped off his horse and landed lightly, holding and whispering into the creature's ear. He had dismounted in the center of the village, around him villagers gathered, though they stayed at a distance. All stared, and many of the older ones glare hatefully at him. He noted at least half-a-dozen spear armed men standing amongst the crowd. He heard words of hate and ugly oaths and degrading slanders thrown in his direction. He smiled at his horse, let them hate, he thought. He heard the hurried footsteps of someone behind him and turned to see a man stomping towards him. He faced him, his posture relaxed and neutral. The man was muttering, his fist balled at his side, his face red with anger, "I'll kill you!" he suddenly roared and launched himself at Hasdrubal.

The fight was over very quickly, knowing what was going to happen, Hasdrubal took one step forwards and simply kicked the man in the groin, and let him topple past, squealing in pain. The crowd was not pleased to see one their own go down and half-a-dozen men, some with spears, stepped forwards swearing as they did. At that moment a tall thin man imposed themselves between crowd and dark-between, shouting at everyone to be still. Fingers where pointed, shouts and screamed thrown with abandon – Hasdrubal weather it all, his proud, intolerant face unperturbed by the people around him, one hand resting on his thin-legged, red-coated horse's back. He towered above the Free-people by more than a head-and-shoulder.

Ban and Dolma entered the square at a double-time trot and sided with the thin man and after several long minutes of pushing, swearing and spitting they succeeded in getting villages to back down from lynching Hasdrubal. The thin man roared, "We are the Free people, not dogs that snap any _mongrel_ that strolls by. We must overcome our fear of outsiders, or we'll never succeed at being free. Only when we live without fear are we totally free!" Most people shook their heads and muttered to one another. Ban assisted by saying, "Brom is right! We must live without fear to be free! Free or not, if any mongrel dog …" he looked over shoulder and finished what he was saying at Hasdrubal, "any mongrel dog dare make a nuisance of itself. He'll soon find himself in for more than a kicking."

Facing the crowd again, Brom placed his hands on his hips and roared, "Get back to what you were doing!" The crowd slowly evaporated, the three village leaders were among of the last, until a few people, mostly the old and young with nowhere else to go, lingered and muttered to themselves. Hasdrubal spotted a young blond-headed boy staring at him, and waved him over. The boy walked slowly, his posture showing he was ready to flee at the slightest threat.  
"Boy, would you like to make a coin?" He asked.  
The boy nodded.  
"Stable and groom my horse, Quesit. Then bring my bags to my room." He fished out a small pouch from a saddle bag and withdrew a shiny silver coin. "This will be yours."  
"Yes, sir." They boy said in a soft voice, eyeing the coin in amazement.  
Hasdrubal unhooked his sword belt, and a shoulder bag and asked, "Name?"  
"Wint, sir" the boy replied, "Ban Vintner's son." Hasdrubal walked into the inn without so much as acknowledging that he had heard the boy.

While Greenhill was a small village with a few hundred souls, it was a very old village, and it sat on an old trade route that in days past saw much traffic. As a resolute, Greenhill Inn was the most important building in the village. Large and dark, it was made of heavy wood and a timber roof, it was the only multi-story building in the village. It was run by a fearsome woman whom the villagers called "the dragon-lady." The old woman had a fiery temper, an acid tongue and was without compunction to use broom or skillet to make her points. Her one-legged husband worked the kitchen and her cow-faced daughter and hulking, but dim-witted grandson worked the tables. Hasdrubal was given an attic room. It was small, with nothing but a rickety wooden frame to lie on, and small table in the corner. There was a window and half the timber roof had come away. The late afternoon sky was darkening when Wint returned barring Hasdrubal's bags.

Wint knocked and entered at a grunt. He saw Hasdrubal standing with his arm's crossed, leaning against the window frame, staring at the village below. "Sir, your things."  
With a lazy hand gesture he indicated that the boy should place his things on the frame.  
Wint stood and waited for many long moments, feeling quite awkward and eventually coughed lightly. Hasdrubal's head turned slowly, as if reluctant to turn away from the village, to take in the boy he said, "Fitch me food and wine."  
"Yes sir … sir, my coin?" Wint asked bravely.  
Suddenly, with a starting speed and grace Hasdrubal spun away from the window and with two long steps, swept up the small pouch that rested atop the table. He towered over the boy, more than twice his height. With more than twice the menace as his father did when he struck him. His cruel face was emotionless. "Food, wine," he said, as he withdrew one silvery coin from the pouch. The boy held out a shaky hand, eyes wide with fear, and face red with anxiety. Long, dark fingers lightly pressed the coin to his palm, but did not release until the boy looked up and met black eyes with his own green ones. Hasdrubal nodded and released the coin. The boy walked out slowly, stiff-backed. When the door was closed he ran with unseemly haste to the privy and released his bladder with a great sigh of relief. He was proud of himself, he was sure he was going to piss himself when the jungle-man turned so violently from the window.

Wint ordered the food and wine, giving Ro a hard slap when the dim-witted, man-child tried to take it to the dark-skinned guest. Wint took it himself, eager for more coin. He knocked on the door again and waited for the grunt to enter. It was dark now, the room lit by a single candle. The room was made up, some cloaks were on the bedframe, and clothing and other items were folded and place neatly along the wall. A sheathed sword was propped up against the wall near the bed frame. Hasdrubal himself, sat cross-legged on the floor, with a book in one hand, a writing-feather in the other.

He sat his items down and rose smoothly to his feet as Wint entered. He was naked, save for a loin cloth, his robes and sandals folded neatly in the corner. As he approached the boy, Wint took a step back, noting how extremely tall he was and though his board-shoulders give him girth, he was thin. In the half-light he looked like a spider, but moved with a fluid easy. Adding to his menacing appearance the flesh of his chest, back, shoulders and arms were marked by dozens of dark tattoos, strange glyphs and hexgrammical wards. Those marking and his near naked form somehow inspired greater trepidation in Wint, who suddenly wished he had let Ro bring the man his meal. Hasdrubal took the small tray and bottle of wine from Wint, "Your coin, for your service, lay on the table." Hasdrubal returned to his books the floor, and smoothly sat himself down, cross-legged.  
"Thank you, sir." Wint said, followed by, "Hmm, sir, what is your name?"  
Without looking up from his book, "Hasdrubal," and with a lazy hand gesture waved the boy away.  
"Thank you, sir," Wint said again, a huge smile on his face.


End file.
